It's a Family Affair
by Sherlockedmyheart
Summary: When Sherlock's mother dies suddenly, Sherlock and Mycroft are forced to re-evaluate their past. John begins to see what shaped the two brothers into what they are today.
1. Chapter 1

**It's a Family Affair**

Chapter 1

John knew something was horribly wrong when he returned back to Baker Street to find that Mycroft and Sherlock _weren't_ at each other's throats. In fact, they two men sat in complete silence staring at the space between their feet.

John cleared his throat, uncertain of whether he should even be in the room.

"Um…hello, Mycroft. What-is-um…" John shifted uncomfortably for a few seconds. Completely unsure of what he should say or do. And, he didn't like the feeling one bit. Mycroft was the first person to notice John standing there. Mycroft's eyes lazily looked John up and down.

"Troublesome patient, then?"

It was then that Sherlock noticed John was in the room. His eyebrows knitted as he looked John up and down himself.

"Father with a child?"

"Tsk. Sherlock, come now." He chided gently. "It's the mother…obliviously."

"Mm."

The brother's upper-class drawl leaked into the conversation but it definitely wasn't as enthusiastic as it was before. In fact, it was very subdued which just confirmed his suspicion that something was wrong.

"Um…yes. The mother said there was a rash on the baby's chest. As soon as I tried to look she pretty much leapt as me." John rubbed the back of his neck, wincing slightly at the pain and sighing as he realised there was going to be a bruise.

"Is-um…is everything alright?"

There was uncomfortable silence (mainly on John's behalf) and he began to wonder if the brother's had actually heard him. Sherlock sighed before placing his hands in a prayer position underneath his chin.

"Our mother is dead."

"Yes. Mummy died last night." Mycroft chipped in but even in Mycroft's normally calm voice, there was no denying the sadness.

"Oh…I'm sorry…I'm really, very…sorry." John groaned internally. He hardly knew when to handle the Holmes brothers when on a normal day but he had absolutely no idea especially since they were going through bereavement.

Mycroft smiled sympathetically.

'_Ever the politician_' John thought to himself. _'Always the people pleaser…'_

"Thank you, John. It is appreciated but there is no need, really."

John nodded. "Would either of you like a cup of tea?"

Mycroft shook his head and twirled the head of his umbrella absently. Sherlock didn't move or say anything.

"Um…I'll be upstairs if you need me."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, which John took to mean a 'thank you' before disappearing up the stairs.

The brother's were once again plummeted in a bleak silence. Each brother wanting to speak but having no idea what to say. So, they relied on what they dealt with best; facts.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "When did mummy die? What time?"

"At around ten, I believe."

"What was the cause?"

"Leukaemia. She had hidden it for sometime."

"But-why didn't she…tell us?"

Mycroft's eyes and lowered to the floor. He sighed heavily; he'd been asking himself that very question since he'd found out.

"I…I don't know, Sherlock. I believe…she did not want us to worry. You know what Mummy was like. I don't think she wanted us to see her die."

"Why? She was always terribly sentimental…why didn't she want us to say goodbye?"

Sherlock looked searchingly into his elder brother's face. Pressing him for an answer, begging him to explain, just like when they were children. But this time Mycroft just didn't have an answer.

"I…don't know _mon frère_. She may not have wanted us to see her die…I think…she wanted our memories of her to be…good and not of her last moments in life."

"But…it doesn't make any sense."

Mycroft did something he'd never have even dared doing before. He leant over and clasped his little brother's hand, squeezing it gently.

"I think this is supposed to."

Sherlock didn't betray any emotion that he appreciated Mycroft's show of support. Mycroft sighed again as he brought his hand back to his side. He rubbed his brow slowly.

Sherlock had been making so much progress regarding his emotions in Mycroft's eyes and this blow came at a very inconvenient time. It would take days for Sherlock to even slightly come out of the lockdown he had imposed on his mind.

He had locked away his emotion to keep himself from hurting and he had done it for so long that even it became very clear that in situations where his emotions simply could not be suppressed any more, he had no idea how to respond to it.

A clear indication that Sherlock was going through an internal battle was the fact that he rose from his seat and sat himself, shoulder to shoulder, next to his brother. He stared at mahogany handle of Mycroft's umbrella.

"Will father be there?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yes…yes, I believe he will."

"Oh…" It was quiet and low. There was no emotion as Mycroft expected but there was still an edge.

Mycroft felt the desperate urge to pull his brother into a hug but there were simply too many ways in which Sherlock could react badly to it. Instead, he just stayed perfectly still.

"The funeral is the day after tomorrow."

"At home?"

"St. Teilo's church, yes. The wake is back at the house."

"What time?"

"Eleven. She's being buried in the graveyard there."

"Mm."

"I can have a car sent to Baker Street on the day."

"When are you going?"

"Tomorrow. I have to be there to greet our relatives…it's going to be tedious but someone must do it and I hardly think that father's up to the job."

"I'll go tomorrow, then."

"Do you think it's wise?"

"I said I'll go. I didn't say I was going to socialise with anyone. That's your area of expertise."

Mycroft let a slight smile appear on the side of his mouth. "Do you want me to send a car?"

"No. I'll catch the train."

Sherlock stared down at his hands. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, unsure of how to word what he wanted to say.

"Can-can I bring John?"

Mycroft nodded. "I think it would be wise."

Sherlock seemed to relax a lot more once he'd got the question off his chest. Mycroft rested his hand on Sherlock's leg and squeezed it gently.

"I'm afraid I must take my leave now."

Sherlock simply stared down at his brother's hand. His long, thin, fingers slowly lowered over his brother's hand. Mycroft almost shivered at how cold Sherlock's hand was.

But he didn't say anything. He didn't want to scare Sherlock. And that's exactly what he knew Sherlock was feeling; fear.

"I'm here, Sherlock." He whispered so that only Sherlock could hear. "You may not believe it, but I'm always here."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John knew Mycroft had gone when Sherlock picked up a violin and started to play one of the most haunting melodies he'd ever heard in his life. If Sherlock didn't know how to express himself in words he could certainly do so in music.

John was reluctant to stop the music if it meant Sherlock got some kind of emotional realise that he needed but he also had a strong feeling that his friend needed someone.

He went down the stairs as quietly as he could but he wasn't exactly the stealthiest of people and by the time he reached the door the music had already stopped.

Sherlock was dressed in his pyjamas and was stood at the window, his violin hung as limply from his hand, mimicking his arm. It was then that John could see that the violin not only expressed what Sherlock felt but it was an extension of his body itself.

"That was beautiful." John leant in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on his privacy too much.

"My violin teacher taught me the piece when I was ten."

"How long did it take you to learn it?"

"I could play the piece within a matter of days but it took me about a week to integrate it into my memory."

John shifted slightly, standing up right now. "Sherlock I know…I know you don't normally talk about how you feel –no, no. Don't interrupt. Just…just listen to me for a minute…I know you don't like to talk or feel it irrelevant but I'll understand, Sherlock. I honestly will. I lost my mother too."

John expected Sherlock to retort with some hurtful comment or that he'd tell him that caring was not an advantage or that he didn't need his help but he didn't. The detective angled his head ever so slightly towards John.

"When did she pass away?"

"Four years back. I was still in Afghanistan at the time. I couldn't even go to her funeral."

Sherlock was silent for two minutes; John didn't move from the doorway, he just watched his friend out of pure curiosity. Sherlock turned around to face John but he didn't look at him. His grey eyes were firmly fixed on the floor.

"You can go to bed if you want. I know you're very tired…"

"You –" John was about to say something supportive but the look of pleading on Sherlock's face silenced his tongue.

Sherlock wanted to be alone, that at least was clear. And, who was John to say otherwise? But as he climbed the stairs back to his bedroom he couldn't help wondering if it was a good idea to leave Sherlock alone in such as state.

A small voice in the back of his mind asked whether Sherlock could cope…or more accurately, if he'd need his crutch to cope; Sherlock's crutch being drugs. The mere thought of it sent a shiver down his spine.

John tried to dispel the thoughts, telling himself that Sherlock was a grown man and could look after himself. He knew his limits…most of the time. John assured himself that Sherlock would come to him if he was out of his depths. It was the unspoken agreement the two men had.

It was only when John flopped onto the mattress did he realise how tired he actually was. God, he was _shattered_. As soon as he tucked himself safely under the duvet and just as his head hit the pillow he was welcomed by a blissfully deep and dreamless sleep.

That was, until he heard a faint knock at the door.

At first John thought he'd imagined it and that he was still dreaming but there was something about the way the knock had been so quiet, as if the person who knocked didn't really want to be answered.

He lay there, eyes wide open staring at the blank ceiling above, straining his ears to listen. But all that greeted him was his own breathing. John sighed. He _must _have imagined it.

Something was not quite right. He knew it. He gave a disgruntled sigh and cursed himself for being so nosey before throwing the covers off and opening his bedroom door.

His eyes finally adjusted in the darkness and saw something that tugged forcefully at his heartstrings. Sherlock was curled up on the floor in the foetal position, his knees brought up to his chest. His eyes were wide open like a child and John thought he could make out tear stains on the younger man's face.

John knelt down beside him, ignoring the protest of his leg. It may have been psychosomatic but it still didn't stop it from bloody hurting. He placed his hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock?" He pressed gently. "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

Those grey eyes locked onto blue and John saw the man look terribly lost. John tucked his arms under Sherlock's and pulled him up. He wrapped Sherlock's arms around his shoulders and wrapped his arms around the younger man's hips.

"Come on, let's get you to bed." John tried not to look like he was struggling as he carried his flatmate to his bedroom. Sherlock didn't put a fight but he wasn't exactly helping either.

By the time he'd got Sherlock into his bedroom, John was panting slightly. For such a lanky sod, Sherlock didn't half weigh a fair bit. John lowered Sherlock as gently as he could onto his bed.

"Try…try get some sleep, Sherlock. It'll do you the world of good, I promise. You've had a nasty shock…just, try and get some rest."

Sherlock didn't say anything; he just stared blankly at the space above John's head. John went to leave when Sherlock's hand grabbed his arm desperately.

"Will…will you come with me tomorrow?"

"Is that when the funeral is?"

"No. Day after but will you travel down with me tomorrow…_please_?"

John gulped. "Of –of course."

Sherlock turned over in the bed, turning his back to John. John rubbed the back of his neck, which still hurt like hell, and slowly made his way to the door. But just before he closed the bedroom door, he heard a small and almost inaudible voice whisper;

"Thank you."


End file.
